


Ten Thousand Nights of Thunder

by mightstill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightstill/pseuds/mightstill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things Sherlock can’t pretend he doesn’t know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Thousand Nights of Thunder

John still has nightmares about the war. The kind that wake him in the middle of the night gasping for breath. Mycroft was only half right when he said that John wasn't haunted by the war, but missed it.

John knows that if Sherlock knew he'd never say anything, and yet still, John tries to hide it as best he can. He keeps a glass of water on his nightstand; leaves the window open a crack even when it's freezing out, the cold reminding him he's in London and not Afghanistan. On nights when it's particularly bad he stays up staring at his laptop willing himself to write.

He never lets on to Sherlock that he's more exhausted than he should be, that certain sounds still make him tense a little. He's grateful whenever they have a case and he can focus on something other than all the shit that's in his head and go days without sleeping properly.

Sherlock knows, of course. He sees the sleep deprivation in his face, the nervous twitch he has when they're not busy. He hears John when he wakes up at night, has noticed the tread on his floor from pacing. He never says anything, though. He'd like to think it respect for John's privacy.

And then there's the nights when it's excruciatingly bad, when John wakes up screaming before he remembers where he is and that he's supposed to be quiet. Those are the nights Sherlock can't pretend. He gets up, just barely throwing on a dressing gown before he's raced to John's room, pulling the man into his arms until he stops shaking. He doesn't care how long it takes, doesn't care if John hates the fact that he knows. All he does care about is letting John know he's safe. Or, at least relatively so.

They usually fall asleep like that, John wrapped up in Sherlock's arms, the comfort of another human being dulling away any lasting mental images.

They don't speak of it the next morning, pretending nothing happened and that they're all perfectly sane. That doesn't stop Sherlock from racing into John's room whenever he's needed, however.


End file.
